Pirates of Destiny
by Steveothepirate
Summary: When Sid Vicious happens across a treasure map leading to Soul Edge, he & the rest of the Sex Pistols take some desperate measures to teach Sidney how to play his bass, not to mention avoid having to make another one of Malcolm Maclaren's movies.
1. Sid & Verrci

**Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Calibur, nor do I own the Sex Pistols, for that matter. Any characters/ in this story whom may bare any resemblance to real persons and/or celebrities are entirely unintentional. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. :P**

Chapter 1: Sid & Verrci

England, 1977-

In a small antiques shop on Hudders Street, the usual posh patrons of the store were lazily browsing about its counters of nick-nacks at the front of the shop, or snooping through the shelves of tiny glass figurines in the back, most all of which portrayed some type of architecture or cliché person that one might seen in a heavily caricatured, Mary Poppins interpretation of an England.

One might say that this description fit the shoppers themselves as well. Most all of them, the youngest of whom had to be at least in their fifties, dressed much like one another, donning the finest business suits or the most carefully seamed dresses their money could buy. Aside from the store's offerings, they busied themselves by chatting about their recent investments, or the latest books they read, or how they selflessly gave a pound or two to some tramp on the dole, laughing heartily all throughout.

"I recently purchased a new Cricket Bat."

"Did you see the latest game of Football?"

"My son was listening to the Beatles earlier. Wonderful little group they were!"

"NANCY!?"

A newcomer's loud and carelessly obnoxious yell turned the heads of most everyone in the store. They stared at the young man standing in the doorway in shock, bewilderment, and quite possibly fear.

One thing was immediately certain: he wasn't one of their type. He looked like the quintessential rock-star, the caricature of a caricature of a punk, with his tight black leather jacket and pants hugging his frame. The jacket boasted vampiric/gothic curves on the sleeves, collar, and ends, along with a few studs and chains here and there. The matching and equally tight leather pants played host to a red bondage strap clasped around his right thigh. They were neatly tucked into a pair of knee-high motorcycle boots. Hanging down just out of the jacket's field of obstruction were more chains and handcuffs hung on his belt loops.

Under his jacket was a red shirt blatantly boasting a swastika. It seemed a bit out of place, as he wasn't clad in any other Nazi paraphernalia, just the lone swastika, sticking out on his stomach like a bull's eye as if its only purpose was to add to the already stunningly over-the-top image he portrayed.

Though skinny, his sheer size and height surely made up for his lack of muscle. He was very pale in complexion which contrasted the predominantly black color of his clothes and hair.

His hair was rather short, but it was strikingly black, and obsessively combed to spike out all over in an almost afro-like styling. His eyes were narrow, and while poised were also far-off and spaced-out as they scanned the inside of the store, searching for something.

"NANCY!?" he cupped his hands over his mouth whilst calling again, looking up at the banner above the entryway to see if this was were he was supposed to be, calling again, "NANCY!?"

Getting no response, he decided to investigate, stepping into the store, seemingly oblivious to the hush that had befallen the store as its shopper's all continued to stare at him. The truth was that he didn't care about them, or what they thought. Most of the time he'd expect, if not encourage this kind of response from _their_ types, but at the moment he had other things on his mind, and so he continued onward into the shop as they all eased out of his way whilst he advanced.

Hoping to find Nancy, he came to a stop in the middle of the shop, scoping out his surroundings for his girlfriend.

He groaned in aggravated failure, before dodding his head left to right as he broke into a snotty impression of her,

"I'll meet you here at 3, Sidney! Be sure you're there on time, Sidney!"

He ended the impersonation by spitting a lugie onto the floor, and then rolled his eyes, aimlessly sauntering onward.

Nodding off as he walked, Sid found himself momentarily lost when he came back to reality, standing in-between two shelves of tiny figurines. That passed quickly, as he soon recognized them as the pair of shelves he had seen in the back of the shop when he first walked in.

Hearing a ting of glass, Sid noticed a tiny old woman standing before him, standing on the tips of her toes attempting to reach a figurine on the top shelf to no avail.

Her left eye happened to catch him, and she suddenly stared at him wide-eyed with a frail and startled "Oh my". She quickly waddled around and then away from him as quickly as she could.

Curious, Sid looked at the statue the old woman seemed interested in and grabbed it, having a much easier go of it thanks to his respectable height.

He held it up to his face for a better look, turning it this way and that. It was a statue of a little schoolboy, smiling at him as Sidney sneered back.

"Who would buy this?" Sid laughed, carelessly letting the figurine loosely dangle in his fingers before dropping it onto the floor, where it shattered into thousands of unsalvageable pieces at his feet.

"What else do they got?" his eyes went back to the top row of figurines.

He snatched up another one, this one depicting St. George trampling a dragon atop his horse.

"How stupid!" he tossed that one over his shoulder, sending George rocketing into two other statues on the shelf behind him. All three of them exploded with another glassy crash.

This pattern persisted for another minute or two with Sid grabbing a statue, scoffing at the statue, and then throwing the statue.

"This one's even worse."

"Crash!"

"Oh, please."

"Crack!"

"Haha!"

"Crick!"

"For the love of…"

"Prink!"

"They're bloody joking!"

Finally, Sid lazily lobbed one over the shelf in front of him, waiting to hear the satisfying sound of its glass smashing into the floor. Instead, he heard a voice along with it,

"Crash!"

"Ouch!"

Surprised, Sid's eyes widened.

"Who the hell's there?" he asked, a bit roughly.

"Watch where you're throwing things!" the voice on the other side of the shelf demanded.

The voice was raspy, gravely, old, a dark hiss.

Walking around the shelf, Sid was shocked by what he saw. Standing in front of him was a hunchback man, shrouded in a brown leather cloak, his skeletal right hand's fingers feebly gripped around a battered old staff which seemed to be holding him up.

He looked directly at Sid, revealing his wrinkled, sneering face and his yellow, snake-like eyes.

Finally, the… uh, "man" spoke,

"You're not like the others," he grinned.

It took the punk a moment to figure what that meant, but it soon came to him, turning his head back to the other shoppers, who had now forgotten about his presence and shopped freely at the front of the store.

"Yeah?" Sid turned back to the man. "So what if I ain't?"

He laughed a wheezing laugh.

"I've been waiting for someone like you," he nodded.

A bit perturbed by that statement, Sidney was about to ask something else, but stopped when the man turned around and took a few slow, shaking steps. He stopped after only a few, and looked back at Sid.

"Walk this way," he resumed his feeble walking, slowly raising a foot, then setting it down to raise the other one, hunched over even moreso.

Shrugging his shoulders, Sid began feebly walking, slowly raising a foot, then setting it down to raise the other one, hunched over as he followed the odd man.

The specter led Sid through a nearby door that almost blended in with the un-illuminated wall, through which they entered a box-filled storage room.

At the end of that room was yet another well obscured door. The man opened it, stepping to the side as he did so, wordlessly inviting Sidney to take the lead and progress. The opened door revealed a short and slightly curving staircase leading down to a very small room boasting a large round table with a duo of wooden chairs adjacent to one another on either side of it. The only source of light in the room was a lamp shining down upon the table, its illumination barely reaching the chairs.

After leading him down the stairs, Vicious stepped off to the side and let the specter walk past him. The cloaked man went straight to one of the aforementioned chairs and sat down before looking at Sid, and then nudging an eye to the chair across from his own.

"So what's this all about?" Sid asked as he walked around the table to plop himself into his designated seat.

The punk watched as the specter reached a bony hand into his cloak.

"Oh," he laughed, continuing to scrounge around in his cloak for something, "it's nothing very complicated…"

Sid raised an eyebrow at this.

"I've just been waiting for the right," the specter paused to search for the word, "_soul_ to pass this along to."

Vicious went wide-eyed when the man withdrew a large piece of rolled up paper, tied via a large ribbon, from the confines of his cloak, and then rolled it across the table to him with a flick of a skeletal finger.

Taking a moment to eye the paper as it sat there in front of him on the table, Sid reluctantly snatched it up with a swipe of his hand, only to look at the specter inquisitively.

"Go on," he nodded coaxingly. "Open it up."

With that go ahead, Sid tore off the ribbon and unrolled the large paper in the middle of the table, its sheer size required nearly the whole of the table for it to be laid out flat.

Now with it open, Sidney's eyes scanned the paper intently. Immediately, he spotted the continents, a few dashed lines, some markings, and most predominantly inked, an X.

"What the hell is this?" he sneered, not turning his gaze, "some kinda treasure map?"

"Exactly," smiled the specter.

Sid looked at the man, then the map, then the man, then the map, then the man, and then the map once more before coming to a conclusion,

"_This is ******* ridiculous," _he thought.

It wasn't everyday that you would see a golem-like hunchback in an antiques store with a treasure map, but Sid Vicious, being well veteraned in the punk scene, had seen more than a handful of people that you probably wouldn't see anywhere everyday. With that in mind, Sid wrote the man off as a loon, then and there.

"Would you like to hear the tale behind the map?" hissed the specter from across the table.

Sid snapped out of his thoughts back to consciousness, and took a moment to smile at the 'treasure map' before giving an answer.

"Yeah, sure," he smirked, holding back his laughter. "Why not?"

Taking in a raspy breath of air, the specter began telling the tale, his demeanor undaunted by Sid's mockery,

"_It started many years ago during the 16th__ century. It was time of warfare, a time in which weapons dealers, merchants of war, could flourish._

_Such was true for the man they called "the Merchant of Death", Verrci, an Italian weapons monger. Through his dealings with the Spanish Armada, Vercci's wealth and power skyrocketed, amassing him an astonishing treasure._

"_Hahaha! I'm Vercci, and my dealings with the Spanish Armada have amassed me an astonishing treasure!" said Verrci._

_Little did Vercci know that with power and wealth comes madness._

_With such a vast mountain of wealth, Vercci grew paranoid, and those who worked for him soon fell under his suspicion._

"_I've got such a vast mountain of wealth that one of my minions might try and take some from me! I'm growing suspicious of them!" Vercci said._

_So, assembling his workers and a fleet of ships, Vercci led his workforce to an uncharted island, and forced them to dig a pit deep into the earth._

_He forced them all to work tirelessly, day in and day out, digging this chasm. _

"_Keep working! All day, and all night! Keep digging this chasm!" ordered Vercci._

_No one really knows how deep it was by the time they finished, but it is said that the depth of the pit Vercci's workers constructed was astonishing._

"_Wow! The depth of the pit you guys made me is astonishing!" exclaimed Vercci.._

_Then, carefully, the whole of Vercci's treasure was placed in the very bottom of the pit. Not one single dabloon went unaccounted for. All of Vercci's wealth was piled within the floor of his pit._

"_Now put my treasure in there!" ordered Vercci._

_After that, Vercci had his men construct corridors, pathways, booby traps of all kinds._

"_Now build some stuff in there so that people will get lost or die if they come looking for my treasure!" Vercci commanded._

_Within the maze of corridors and walkways, there were trap doors…_

"_Throw in some trap doors!" Vercci ordered._

… _water traps…_

"…_and some water traps!" Vercci demanded._

… _poison arrows…._

"… _and I want poison arrows!"_

… _spike pits…_

"_How about some spike pits!?"_

… _guillotines…_

"… _and maybe some guillotines!"_

_Countless traps and mazes, all of which spelt certain doom for any would-be thief who would dare so much as enter._

"_We got's lotsa traps up in here!"_

_Through his paranoia, there was one of his servants who Vercci still trusted; a man named Voldo._

"_I still trust you, Voldo!"_

_Shut up, Vercci._

"_Sorry…"_

_Once the construction was completed after many long years, Vercci ordered Voldo to slaughter the rest of his workers, and as a reward, he sealed Voldo along with himself, inside the money pit, surrounded by his treasure._

_Then, upon his deathbed, Vercci ordered Voldo to guard the Money Pit against all intruders. After Vercci died, Voldo did so, protecting the pit alongside its traps and mazes._

_After years of being sealed within the Money Pit, Voldo went insane, blind and deafened, and unable to speak. Only his unmatched skills for killing remained sharp._

_One day, Voldo heard his mater's voice inside his head._

"_Voldo! It's me, your master! I'm inside your head!" said Vercci's disembodied voice._

_He went on to tell Voldo that there was one piece of treasure that he was never able to obtain during his lifetime: Soul Edge, a legendary magical blade said to possess unmatched power, not to mention feast on the souls of the innocent and consume the mind and body of those who wield it, but that's not important right now._

"_Hey, Voldo! I want Soul Edge! They say that it possesses unmatched power!" Vercci's disembodied voice explained._

_And so, Voldo ventured outside of the Money Pit in search of Soul Edge in spite of a few minor difficulties. _

"_He can't see or hear nothing!" explained Vercci._

_You're not even in this part of the story!"I just like feeling included."_

_Just shut up!_

"_Ok."_

_Unfortunately, like all things magical, Soul Edge was broken into fragments that were scattered across the globe._

_Voldo found quite a few of these, and took them back to the Money Pit. He only had a third of the full sword. No one quite knows what happened to Voldo after that._

_The rest of the sword was held by Cervantes De Leon, a Spanish pirate whom Vercci had hired to find Soul Edge during his life._

"_Argh! I be Cervantes, and I'm gonna be findin' Soul Edge for Var__cci!" said Cervantes._

_Cervantes did find a fragment of Soul Edge, even though the reasons have long been forgotten by history (aka the author's to lazy to think of anything), but the sword's dark power drove him mad, and overtook his mind._

"_ARGH! Drivin' me mad the sword is!" exclaimed Cervantes._

_Controlled by Soul Edge, Cervantes sailed around killing the fellow brawny men of the sea aboard his now haunted ghost ship, taking their souls to appease Soul Edge whilst seeking out the Money Pit in order to once again make the sword whole._

"_Where be that there Money Pit!?" Cervantes asked._

_Some say Voldo still lurks within the Money Pit. Others say he's still out there, searching for the rest of Soul Edge. As for Cervantes, some say he's still roaming the sea, closing in on the Money Pit to this very-"_

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," Sid rolled his eyes as he droned on. "Bellyache, bellyache. Blah, blah, blah, blah…"

"So then," smiled the specter, "do you want the map?"

Sid thought for a moment. If anything, the map would be good for a laugh or two.

Then, he stood up and proceeded to walk to the side of the table.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I guess I'll take it."

Sidney rolled up the map, and stuffed it into the strap around his leg before heading up the stairs without so much as a "thank you" for the cloaked hunchback. He was just about to walk out the door when a thought popped into his head, bringing a smile to his face.

"Oh, one more thing," he turned around, looking down at the man from the top of the stairs. "What sort of 'powers' has that sword got?"

"Whatever powers you desire it to have," nodded the specter.

Sid turned his head away to hide his laughter.

"Alright, thanks," Vicious smiled as he walked out of the room.

He waited until he had closed the door behind him to burst into full-blown laughter.

With the map in his possession, Sid exited the store and headed for his motorcycle which he left parked on the sidewalk nearby. Stepping up to the side of it, Vicious leaned over to check his hair in the bike's left mirror, after which he gripped the handlebars, slung a leg over the seat and plopped onto the Harley.

Sidney then kicked the bike into gear, and took a moment to give a glance down to the map tied to his thigh.

"That fool was loonier than John," he smiled as he proceeded to rev-up the engine and look forward towards the road ahead. "They'll get a kick outta this one,"

Meanwhile on the other side of town in some hole-in-the-wall recording studio, the other three Sex Pistols were hard at work rehearsing, with Paul Cook banging about on the drums, Steve Jones doing his best to look like Johnny Thunders as he wailed on his guitar, and Johnny Rotten sneering and spitting out his vocals on the mic,

"I don't want a holiday in the sun

I wanna go to the new Belsen!

I wanna see some history

'Cause now I've got a reasonable economy!

Now I've got a reason

Now I've got a reason

Now I've got a reason,

And I'm still wai-"

Johnny stopped singing when he realized that Steve wasn't singing his backing vocals, and then listened as he and Paul slowly ceased to play their instruments.

"What's goin' on?" John asked.

Before he got an answer, the sound of a motorcycle's engine shutting off outside caught his attention. Almost immediately after, the door to the recording studio flew open with a crash, and in came Sidney.

"You guys won't believe what happened to me!" he laughed as he wriggled out of his leather jacket before tossing it onto the floor as he continued to walk.

Sid made his way towards the makeshift stage the rest of the Pistols were standing on and spotted his bass laying atop an amplifier next to the stage. He picked it up and slung its strap over his shoulder, and then did a rotating hop up onto the edge of the stage, seating himself with his back turned to the others.

"What happened?" Steve asked as Sid clumsily strummed through a chord or two, "did ya learn how to play that thing?"

This remark got a good chuckle from Paul and John, which angered Vicious almost more than the remark itself.

"Shut up!" Sid snapped, turning his head to glare at them, Jonsey in particular. "You just wait an-"

Rotten took a step towards the bassist, holding a pleading hand up even though a green-toothed grin graced his face.

"No, really, Sidney," his words were dripping with sarcasm, "we are so glad you managed to make it to rehearsal."

Sid opened his mouth to fire back with a retort, but Paul chimed in, interrupting him.

"Yeah, Sid," he joined in the sarcastic jesting, "I would've been lost without your rhythm to keep me on track!"

Paul barely made it through the sentence before he busted into laughter with Jones and Rotten.

"You yobs better shut up!" Sid roared as he stomped onto his feet.

The others simply ignored his outburst and continued making their jokes.

"Don' warreh, John," Rotten leaned towards Sidney as he mimicked his East London accent, "I'm gonna learn tooh play tha bass real soon! Honest, ah will!"

Again, they erupted into cackling laughter, leaving Sid to literally grind his teeth together.

Fighting through his giggles, Paul stepped off his drum kit and motioned for John and Steve to come closer.

"Hey guys?" he grinned, still cackling through his words, "how many Sids does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

"Hopefully less than it would take to learn a bar chord!" Steve answered.

"BWAHAHAHA!!!!" the three Pistols were nearly rolling on the floor, as John had to prop himself up with his mic stand at this point, and Paul nearly fell off his drums.

Stifling his cackling, Steve stood with his legs spread out a bit more and held his guitar down at his knees, letting his eyes go far off as he swayed back and forth like a drone, mindlessly bumbling on a string or two, effectively imitating Vicious (imitating Dee Dee Ramone).

"You think that's funny!?" Sid shot a finger at Steve, and then turned his attention to the other two. "You all think this is so funny!?"

"Y-yessss!!" Paul struggled to answer through his laughter.

"Well I'll show you!" Vicious declared with an outraged stomp of his foot. He then violently clutched his bass guitar and shook it. "I'm gonna learn to play this thing!"

"GWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" Sid's declaration got the biggest laughs yet.

Johnny was now literally on the floor with a single arm around the base of his mic stand and the other clutching at his ribs as he laughed.

"Please, stop Sid!" he removed his hand from his ribs to hold it up pleadingly. "Yu-you're killin' me, you sod! Hahaha!!!"

"I'M NOT JOKING!!!" Sid screamed directly at John like an indignant child. "I'M GONNA LEARN TO PLAY MY BASS!!!"

"Yeah, sure," Jones chuckled. "How could you possibly learn to play that bloody thing?"

Without even thinking about it, Vicious pulled the map out from his leg-strap with a proclamation of, "SOUL EDGE!"

The other Sex Pistols had stopped laughing somewhat, and just looked at Sid, puzzled.

"What?" John laughed.

"Soul Edge!" Vicious repeated himself, shaking the map in his fist. "It's this big magical sword buried in some island that can teach me to play my bass!"

The other three remained in silence, now looking at Sid with the same confused and concerned looks he got from the people in the antiques store.

"Honesty Sid," Steve shook his head with an exasperated sigh, "get off the junk, wouldya?"

"I'm not makin' it up!" Sid yelled, again stomping a foot. "It's true!"

Sidney took the map in both hands and pulled it open as best as he could to show it to the others. They all stepped closer to get a better view of the map, eyeing its lines, markings, and so on.

"What the hell is this?" Johnny raised an eyebrow. "'Some sorta treasure map?"

"Exactly!" smiled Vicious.

"Bollocks," Steve rolled his eyes.

"It's not bollocks!" Sid snapped at him.

"Then what is it then?" Paul Cook shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a map leadin' to that sword, Soul Edge!" Vicious explained. "Some little golem fellow in a cloak gave it to me, and he told me all about it!"

Rotten's already buggy eyes bulged at this before he narrowed them in thought, rubbing his chin as he drifted off into his mind.

Jones raised an eyebrow.

"What were _you _doin' in an antiques store?" he inquired.

Sid had to think for a moment.

"Well, let's see…," he scratched his head before it came to him. "I was lookin' for Nancy."

Another realization soon followed.

"I forgot all about Nancy!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, god," Steve groaned. "Not that horrible bird of yours again."

"Shut up!" Sid snapped again.

"You know," John spoke up, turning everyone's heads to him, "I've actually heard about that sword a few times." He gave the map a closer look. "This thing might not be total rubbish after all."

Steve and Paul gave Rotten an odd pair of looks, surprised that he was jumping to Sid's defense.

"A man in a cloak," John continued, again rubbing his chin. "I've read something about that, too."

Steve took a few steps over to Johnny."So you're saying this isn't all just a bunch of nonsense?" he asked.

"Perhaps," Rotten nodded, watching Sid as he stuck his tongue out at Jonesy.

"Even if it is real," Cook paused his sentence to hop off his drumset, "we can't just go fetch a boat and go on some ridiculous treasure hunt! We've got an album to do!"

Sid frowned as the others glanced at him.

"He's got a point," Steve turned to Johnny.

"Yeah," Rotten smiled, looking at Sid again. "It's probably just a rubbish old wise tale."

"But-" Vicious wanted to protest.

"Sorry Sid," Steve laughed, "but there's no way we're stopping this album just to go and find some-"

"CRASH!"

The door of the studio again flew open, turning the heads of everyone in the room towards it.

"Oh great," Paul sighed when he saw who entered the room, "it's Malcolm."

"Hello boys!" Malcolm Maclaren, the 'wonderful' manager of the Sex Pistols, dressed in his Willy Wonka-esqe dark purple business suit, greeted the band as he approached them.

When he got close enough, Malcolm hopped up onto the stage, causing Vicious to step out of his way as he continued walking until he was standing in the middle of the four Pistols. He was sure to smile at each of them. They all glared back.

"I've got some big news for you all," he said with glee.

"You've got cancer?" Johnny smiled with hope.

"Even better!" Maclaren beamed.

Pushing his tie out of the way, Malcolm reached into his business jacket and withdrew a stack of white papers, which he proceeded to hand to each of the Sex Pistols.

They all looked at the cover page,

"THE SEX PISTOLS IN PEPPERLAND - A film by Malcolm Maclaren"

"Do you all remember 'Who Killed Bambi'?" he asked them, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," they collectively groaned, raising up from their papers.

"Well," Maclaren went on, "I recently talked with Universal Pictures and secured the rights to produce a brand new movie, starring the four of you!"

The Pistols were dead silent, each taking the news with a grimace. Malcolm let them stand there, waiting.

"Well, go on! Go on!" he grinned eagerly. "Read a bit of it!"

Unenthusiastically, the four punks went about flipping through the pages of Malcolm's script, muttering through the words as they read,

"Sid fights Godzilla…"

"Johnny Rotten gets beaten up by Bob Dylan…"

"Steve coaches the hockey team to victory in the Stanley Cup…"

"Cook finds a talking dog that can play baseball…"

"… and then the Sex Pistols saved Christmas."

"Well?" Malcolm asked once they were done. "What did you think?"

"Rubbish!" Rotten grumbled.

"Absolute bollocks!" Jones exclaimed.

"Utter garbage!" Paul shook his head disapprovingly.

"There's too many big words, I can't read it!" Sid whined.

Malcolm sighed.

"Oh," he said, "That's unfortunate…."

The Sex Pistols looked at Malcolm inquiriously, worried by what that statement could possibly mean.

Maclaren then whipped out another piece of paper with a blue ribbon dangling off the bottom of it, which he held up for his clients to see.

"You four don't have any choice in the matter," a smile crept into his lips as he uttered those words. "I've already signed the deal with Gorge Ducas, so you're all under contract to the studio."

The bandmates eyed one another, worried that this surefire box office blunder had become inevitable.

However, as a great man once said, "The future is unwritten".

Or it might have just been Triple H who said it. I can't remember.

Anyways, Rotten's face lit up as an idea came to him. He walked up to Maclaren with the best smile he could muster, and slapped an arm around him as if they were the best of friends.

"Gee, Malcolm," he began, "I wish we could be in this…," he had to stop in order to muster up enough strength to utter what he would say next, "_wonderful_ film of yours, but we're going to be busy with something incredibly important."

"Important?" Maclaren sneered as he shoved John off of him. "What could be more important than this?"

Paul rushed up to Malcolm, nudging Johnny out of the way.

"We found someone who can teach Sid how to play the bass," Cook beamed.

Malcolm was silent and still, unable to process what the drummer had just said to him. Once his brain had a little time to double-check his ears, the Pistols' manager found himself howling with laughter.

"HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

"No, Malcolm!" Johnny yelled over his cackling. "It's all true!"

Maclaren immediately stopped, and eyed John in disbelief.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Mhm!" Paul nodded, and then pointed to the map in Sid's hand, causing the bassist to hold it up. "He's an old Indian bloke who lives on this island out in the ocean."

"That one!" John quickly added, pointing to the X.

Getting a bit closer to it, Malcolm took out his reading glasses and eyed the map up and down. He then looked at the Pistols behind him with a smile.

"Wow," he nodded in approval. "What's this man's name?"

The three of them looked at one another, only coming up with "um"s and "eh"s, before Jonesy finally thought of,

"Keeptune… Mc… Good… groove."

"'Keeptune McGoodgroove'?" Malcolm repeated the name for himself.

"Yep!" Steve nodded. "Keeptune McGoodgroove."

"Good ol' Keeptune McGoodgroove!" Sidney grinned.

"Keeptune McGoodgroove!" Johnny exclaimed with phoned-in passion. "What a fellow that Keeptune is!"

Malcolm rubbed his chin.

"And this…" he had to pause and look to John askingly for the name.

"Keeptune McGoodgroove," Johnny reminded him, still all smiles.

"This 'Keeptune McGoodgroove' can teach Sid here how to play bass?" the manager finished his question.

"He sure can!" Steve nodded, "or his name ain't Keeptune McGoodgroove!"

"You can always count on Keeptune McGoodgroove!" Paul added with a cheery thumbs up for Malcolm.

After that barrage of their most convincing efforts, the Sex Pistols looked at their manager anxiously as he was again rubbing his chin in thought. He stopped and looked at them, ready to speak, their hopes possibly riding on his words.

"Alright," he gave them a smile. "You fellows run to the docks, I'll order you a fine ship for your voyage."

"_Will the Sex Pistols find the sword? Will Sid Vicious finally learn to play the bass? Whatever happened to Nancy? Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Do you know the Muffin Man? Why am I asking you all these questions? Why is the sky blue? W-"_

_Shut up, Verrci!_


	2. Holidays In the Daily Sun

**Disclaimer: Still don't own anything, just FYI**

Chapter 2: Holidays in the Daily Sun

Having left their recording studio around 30 minutes ago, the 'Pistols had been walking from block to block down the sidewalk in the cold drippy weather for some time now, ignoring the photo snaps from a pursuing band of journalists for the Daily Sun across the street as their gazes angrily switched back and forth between the photographers and the ground.

Sid decided that it would be best if he just kept his eyes on his feet, hoping that it would alleviate his level of annoyance spawned by the relentless flashes. Yet again, the attention he usually gamed for went unwanted.

"I wish all these yobs would stop starin' at us," he grumbled.

"Just keep walking," Johnny said, his eyes hidden by his rose-tinted sunglasses. "We're almost there, aren't we?"

"I think so," Vicious looked back, for once being the one in the lead. "The docks should be around Hudder's Street, or so."

"Yeah," Steve piped-in. "They're right by the shoppin' district."

"So Malcolm's gonna have a boat ready for us then?" Paul asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah," Sid replied.

There was a brief silence between the four until Steve spoke-up with a question.

"So are we really doin' this?"

The other three were silent. The reality of the situation mutually donned upon them at that moment.

"W-well," Paul stammered for words, "what are the chances that Malcolm's gonna get a fuckin' boat?"

"It's Malcolm," Johnny gave him a glare, then sneered out through his teeth, "he'll get one…"

Another brief silence fell over the foursome for a moment, each of them deep in thought (sans perhaps Sid, who was only able to plummet to neurological depths within the shallow range).

"Maybe we can use this to our advantage," Johnny mused, his sardonic tone clashing with the rather positive statement.

"How?" Steve's cynicism, for once in a situation, outshined John's.

"Take the boat, sail somewhere out of the way. Disappear."

Paul sighed.

"Is it really worth all this trouble?" he vexfully exclaimed.

The drummer suddenly rushed out in-front of the others and stopped to face them.

"I mean, would making another one of Malcolm's two-bob films really be that much worse than havin' to go through all this sailin' nonsense!?"

"Think about what you're saying, Paul!" Johnny's eyes went wide(er).

"Think about what we're doing, John!" Cook's uncharacteristically fiery retort garnished a stunned silence from the other three Pistols. "We don't know anything about boats! We don't know anything about sailing! This is fucking MAD!"

Sid practically pounced on Cook and gripped him by his shirt collar, nearly lifting him off his feet.

"Did you read the script!?" Vicious screamed. "Did you fucking read it!?"

Johnny and Jonesy quickly grasped Sid by his arms and struggled to pry him off of Paul.

"Talking dogs, Paul!" Jones grumbled out whilst fighting against Sid's resistance.

"'The Sex Pistols save Christmas'," Johnny quickly recited just as he and the guitarist freed Cook from Sid's grasp with a simultaneous tug.

After the scuffle, the four stood there for a moment, lazily readjusting their clothes as their shared tension and animosity towards one another slowly faded.

"I think John's got an idea," Steve plainly stated, getting a slow nod from Vicious.

"If we can just get the boat out of British waters we can find someplace to settle for a bit," Rotten added, looking to Paul for any sign of approval.

"Kind of like a holiday," Sid concluded.

There was another silence as the other three awaited Paul's verdict. A light suspense persisted until Cookie let out a heavy breath.

"Yeah," he began, letting his shoulders drop, "I suppose that's our best option."

Johnny crossed his arms.

"Alright then," he nodded. "It shouldn't be too hard getting out of the public eye…," an eye of his own loomed towards the photographers across the street. "For once, Malcolm ain't airin' all our goings-on."

"Yeah," Steve managed to let a smile creep into his lips. "It's not like anyone knows about this."

Suddenly, a sole photographer who had gotten quite bold parted from his group across the street and rushed up beside Paul, relentlessly flashing pictures as the drummer scowled at him.

"Piss in the bushes!" he yelled.

"Piss off!" Johnny yelled back.

Before he could respond to the remark, the photographer was forced to retreat when Rotten threw a flailing kick towards his camera, leaving Sid to place his readied bike chain back into his pocket as the cameraman dashed back to his fellow journalists.

Apparently satisfied with their work, the parasitic paparazzi went walking in the opposite direction of the punks, who despite their growing distance managed to catch a few snippets of the cameramen's gloating,

"I got an angry look from Paul and a 'piss off' from John!"

"That's great! More than enough to last a few months!"

"Hey, let's go see what that Scottish army bloke with the mohawk's doing!"

"YAY!!!"

Effectively annoyed, the Sex Pistols continued their trek across the oddly empty town, passing block after block, street after street.

"I was thinking," Sid started, breaking what had been a lengthy stint of silence.

"Good job, Sidney," Rotten smirked.

"Shut up," he gave John a scowl. "I meant about Soul Edge…"

"Wha'?" Jones laughed.

"'Soul Edge'!" Sidney snapped at him. "You know, that magic sword on the island that the map leads-"

"Aughhh…," The rest of the band groaned.

"Really, Sid?" Cook laughed.

"Don't tell me you still believe that old wise-tale," Rotten hissed.

Sid abruptly came to a halt, eyeing John pointedly once he, Steve, and Paul followed suit.

"How do you know it's not real?" the bassist demanded, crossing his arms.

Johnny couldn't even regard the question with enough merit to offer an answer, only able to smirk through his nose, shaking his head disdainfully. Paul and Steve each bit their lips to keep from outwardly howling.

"What a tosser!" Paul cackled, finally losing it with a literal slap of his knee. "Hahaahaha!"

"I'll betcha he still believes in fucking Santa Claus!" Jonesy spat out before being thrown into full-blown laughter.

Keeping his arms crossed, Sid fumed as he stomped forward, grumbling to himself whilst his friends continued their riotous laughter.

"Stupid cunts," he mumbled. "Of course Santa's real…"

The teasing and laughter soon died-down and the Sex Pistols were again journeying in silence. The silence was short lived, for the length of their venture was beginning to ware on a few of them.

"This is miserable!" Vicious spat out a complaint. "I'm sick of all this bloody walking!"

"Shut up, Sidney," Johnny muttered.

"C'mon, John," Steve groaned, sounding just as whiny as Sid. "Let's just get a cab, or something."

Rotten sighed in defeat, coming to a stop, causing the other three to also do so.

"Alright," he rolled his eyes. "Let's get a cab, then."

They were able to hail a cab rather quickly, seeing as how there was a respectable amount of them driving about; It also helped that the Sex Pistols frantically jumping and waving their arms on the sidewalk was a fairly difficult sight to miss, especially with the oddly small amount of people out and about.

Once a cab stopped, the four of them piled into the back, scrounging around until they fixed themselves into a workable yet squished row. After this, they each chipped in a coin or two and handed them to John, who then passed them off to the driver upfront. He let them drop into his collection bowl, rattling as they landed.

"Okay," the Arabian cabbie looked back at them, all smiles. "Where do yoo needs too goh?"

"Dunno yet," Jonesy grunted as he straightened a leg to withdraw his roadmap from his jean pocket. "We're trying to get to the docks."

"Oh, no," the cabbie shook his head. "I doo nat go dat far, is out of my area. I can take yoo too Hooders Street."

"That's fine," Steve replied, more invested in his grappling contest with his roadmap which stubbornly insisted on staying closed.

Once it finally came unfolded, all four band members huddled together in order to view the map.

Hudder's Street______________

I__________________________I Some Street

I__________________________I

Which Street________________I_________________That Street

I_________________________ I ________________What Street

I _________________________I

Another Street______________-I-________________This Street

"Well," Johnny started, "since we're on This Street-"

"Nah," Steve interrupted, "we're on That Street."

"No," Rotten persisted, "We're still on This Street; We haven't even gotten onto That Street yet!"

"What street?" Paul asked.

"No!" Rotten exclaimed. "This Street!"

"Oh, that street," the drummer nodded.

"This Street!" Johnny again corrected him.

"Wait, which street?" Sid inquired.

"No, that's way up there!" Steve yelled. "We'd have to get on Some Street before then."

"Yeah, but which street-" Sid persisted.

"Forget about Which Street!" Johnny demanded. "We don't need that street!"

"Of course we do! We're on That Street!" Steve yelled.

"Yeah, we're on this street, right here," Paul added.

"No, Steve just said it's That Street!" Rotten declared.

"Right, this street, that we're on right now!" the drummer repeats himself.

"We aren't on This Street!" Sid snapped. "We're on another street!"

"No!" Steve argued. "We're on That Street! We can get onto Another Street if we keep going straight."

"But which street?" Johnny asked.

"He didn't say a fuckin' thing about that street!" Sid barked.

"What!?" Rotten sneered.

"Look!" Paul yelled over the others. "If we stop before we get onto Another Street, we can just turn onto Some Street and…"

"Which Street, though?" Rotten cut in.

"Could we get off of fucking Which Street!!" Jones exclaimed.

"We're on This Street, you wanker!" Vicious screamed.

"Look, are we takin' Some Street or Another Street to Which Street?" Steve groaned-out a question, fairly exasperated.

"Which Street would be quicker," Paul answered.

"I think Some Street would be faster," Sid replied.

"No!" Cook snapped. "I mean 'Which Street' would be quicker!"

"I just bloody told ya!" Sid yelled back.

"What's wrong with Another Street?" Johnny piped-in.

"Which Street is better!" Paul fumed.

"I don't know which street is better; I'm askin' you!" Rotten fired back. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with this street anyway!"

"What about That Street?" Sid asks.

"I said it's fine!" Rotten answered roughly.

"But you were talkin' about This Street," Paul corrected him.

"No, That Street!" Johnny replied.

"Alright!" Jones yelled over everyone else. "Let's just take This Street and get onto Another Street!"

"Wait, which street?" Sid asked.

"No!" Jones yelled. "See? This street right here!"

"Oh, that street," Paul nodded.

"He said This Street!" Rotten barked.

A few blocks ahead of the taxi, a travel agent was showing a group of apartments to an elderly French couple.

"As you can see Mr. and Mrs. Lafitte," the travel agent smiled whilst gesturing towards the buildings before them, "this would be a wonderful choice for the two of you."

"Iz Eet quieht?" asked Mr. Lafitte.

"Oh, heavens yes," laughed the travel agent. "The kids call this the 'dullest place in London'."

"Oh, zat tis zoh lovely," Mrs. Lafitte smiled.

"No little bratz running about?" her husband inquired with a laugh.

"Of course not," smiled the travel agent. "No punks here, I'm afraid".

As a taxi cab drove past the three, its rear door flew open and out popped the Sex Pistols onto the sidewalk at Mister and Misses' Lafitte's feet, a tangled heap of flailing limbs and expletives as the four were engaged in a brawl.

_____

After hitching a ride from the begrudgingly hospitable travel agent who's schedule for the day now included much more free-time, the band exited the vehicle when they had reached Hudder's Street and waded between the traffic across the road to the opposite sidewalk to have an easier go of reading the signs and banners of all the different stores and shops that lined the street's left side,

"King's Diamonds- Jewelry for the whole family, even GRANDMA!"

"Wonder Specs- Your eyes won't cry!"

"Wagon Wheels- They aren't smaller, You're just crazy"

"_MMmmmmm, Wagon Wheels….," _Sid thought as he longingly eyed the latter sign, almost instinctively placing a foot out to walk in the direction of the store.

"Ay, look Sid!" his thoughts were disrupted by Steve's suddenly jovial voice.

Vicious and Rotten looked to see what their guitarist was on about as he peered down the block and pointed to a blonde-haired woman in heavy make-up and stockings at the end of the block.

"It's your girl Nancy!" Steve laughed

As John and Jonesy cackled at his expense, Sid took a step towards Jones and gave him a quick fist to the side of the arm.

"Fuck off!" he grumbled, crossing his arms.

Favoring his stricken left arm, Steve eyed the working girl with a cheeky grin, surprised when she gave him a dainty, yet possibly drunken wave.

"Nancy looks a lot prettier than usual, don'she, Sid?" he smirked, this time finding an arm wrapped around his neck.

"Say it again!" Vicious screamed as Johnny tried to pry him off of Steve. "Say it again, you cunt!"

After taking a moment to glance back at his bandmates roughhousing on the sidewalk, Paul turned his attention to the window of the travel agent's car, and gave it a knock, prompting him to roll it down.

"Thanks for the ride, mate," Cookie smiled. "Sorry about ruinin' your sale and all that."

"Whatever," the man rolled his eyes, hastily turning from Paul to put move his clutch into drive.

He proceeded to roll-up his window and drive onward, giving Paul and the rest of the band a parting glare. He redirected his attention to the road, muttering to himself,

"'Hope they all drown…"

Upon turning his head, Paul saw that the rest of the band had calmed down. He was left to idle between the two lanes of traffic, the one in front of him being far more congested than the lane their begrudging chauffer was in. Eventually, a driver stopped on his behalf, allowing him just enough time before he and the rest of the traffic continued on in a seemingly unending stream.

"What's with all this traffic?" Cook raised an eyebrow, now standing alongside his fellow Pistols.

The four stood and watched as pedestrian after pedestrian after pedestrian after pedestrian passed them on the street.

"Where do ya think they're going?" Steve had to ask, noticing that the opposite lane was nearly empty.

Johnny rubbed his chin in thought, eyeing off into the far reaches of the street.

"The other lane leads back into the city," he thought aloud, "and this one only leads out to the…"

Rotten's words trailed-off as an epiphany struck him and the rest of the band. Worried looks were exchanged between themselves, as were worried thoughts that went unverbalized.

"How would anyone know?" Paul asked. "Malcolm said he was keeping this quiet, right!?"

The punks were caught off-guard by a loud horn coming from a car just a ways down the street. They turned towards the noise from their left instinctively, just in time to see the driver poke his head and a waving arm out his window.

"Hey, Sex Pistols!" he yelled, still hammering down on his horn. "Hey!"

Another horn from another car shot their heads to the right. The automobile had passed them, its driver and her passenger had their heads turned around to give them spastic waves of their own.

Then another horn came, and another, until the street was abuzz with an ear-splitting orchestra of various honks, before the clatter and chatter of people exiting the shops followed.

They were surrounded. Another frenzy. So much noise, so much commotion. All centered around them. Their eyes shot from the cars to the barrage of people barreling down on them from all sides. Out of the shops, from across the street, some even getting out of their cars. All gunning for them with a crazed frenzy of excitement.

"It's them!"

"It's the Sex Pistols!"

"Oi, Sid!"

"Good luck, boys!"

"The Sex Pistols!"

"Smooth sailin'!"

"Johnny!"

And they still honked their horns.

"Honk-honk!"

"Beep!""H-honk!"

"Hooonk!"

"Bee-beep!"

It all melded into a visual blur and a sonic mush of adrenaline. The Pistols' eyes darted this way and that, having lost all sense of direction in this blender of sound and wildness. There was only one course of action they could take, and it was soon put into motion via a panicked cry from Johnny Rotten,

"Leg it!"

Not knowing where-else to run, the band found themselves sprinting into the nearest shop, barging through the door as quickly as they shut it behind themselves, leaving the mob of people to barrage the shop's wall and windows with frantic shouts and fists. Gasping for breathes, they slouched against the door and wall, slumping to seated positions on the floor.

"What's havin' tha four ov you in sucha hurray?"

The Pistols raised their heads to discover that the voice came from the man sitting at the small store's check-out counter on the left side of the store. He was a small Scotsman, seemingly in his mid-30s or 40s. The man reached into his dress-shirt's breast pocket to retrieve his spectacles, taking a moment to rub them clean with his sleeve.

"'Quite a commotion outside, isn't thar, laddies?" he quipped whilst doing so.

Once they were cleaned, he popped-on his glasses, bringing the four men sitting against the wall into focus.

"Blimey!" he exclaimed. "You're the-"

"Yeah, yeah!" Johnny popped onto his feet. "Sod it, already!"

"Oh, well than," the Scotsman found himself a bit taken-back by Rotten's roughness, but still rather starstruck, regaining his cheery disposition with a clearing of his throat, "this is mi store, 'Stereotypical Alan's Conveniently-Placed Costume Shop'!"

"Wonderful," John murmured, not even attempting to sound sincere as he hoofed past Stereotypical Alan's counter towards the circular racks of guising garmantry. He stopped, easing his eyes upward to regard the prices hung above each individual rack.

Back against the wall, the three remaining Pistols still sat against the door as it frantically lurched with varying forces and wildly screamed with varying voices behind them.

As Johnny dared to eye the price tags looming over the cylindrical clothing racks, Steve took it upon himself to chance a glance out the window at the ravenous flock with only 4 inches of foundation and an inch of glass between he them.

A sole face suddenly plastered itself against the glass, causing Steve to leap back with a yelp, which in-turn snapped Paul and Sid onto a vertical base.

Thoroughly rattled, the three of them wordlessly migrated over to where John was still eyeing Stereotypical Al's prices,

"Clown Costumes- £180"

"Vampire Costumes- £260"

"Royal Knight Costumes- £390"

"Glam-Rocker Costumes- £130"

"Fucking hell," Johnny glared back at Stereotypical Alan. "'This a piss-take?"

"Yeah," Sid added, "who in the hell would pay that much to dress like some faggy vampire?"

"Ay," Stereotypical Alan narrowed his brow as he looked to Vicious, "vampyahs 'll be big someday. Tha lassez will be all-ovah 'em, mark me words!"

"Oh, right," Paul laughed, "and Sid here will be a sex-symbol one day, won' he?"

"Well," Stereotypical Alan rubbed his chin, "if yer wantin' somethin' chayper, than I be havin' some ol' rags left ovah from that th'r play dat waz here a few weeks ago. 'Some quir drabble 'bout-"

"PONK! Ponk! PONK!"

The mob outside was becoming more feverish, their crashes against the front wall had escalated in frequency and violence.

"Is there a backway outta here?" Rotten asked.

"Iy," the Scotsman replied with a weary eye to the now cracked windows. "You boys best be hurryin' yerselves along soon, I'd say…"

At this point, Stereotypical Alan had to sit down. His inability to decide on an accent left him with a terrible headache, not to mention a grave worry that his nondescript tongue left his name's merit in question, as the author gave him no physical traits that were discernibly Scottish, or any physical traits outside of a pair of glasses, for that matter, leaving his proud label of "stereotypical" to rest flimsily on his ever-changing dialect alone.

Feeling that said author was wasting too much of their time carrying-on about some minor character, the Sex Pistols made their way to the backroom of the shop, finding the small room to be empty, save a large crate lackadaisically labeled "P.O. Penzance" with a sharpie-marker.

_____

Now begarbed in their newly acquired costumes, our punky protagonists journeyed through the tucked-away backstreets towards what they assumed to be the epicenter of all the madness. Ironically enough, the frenzied noises and commotions in the not-too-far-off distance seemed to settle the closer they got to the docks, eventually to such a point that they were able to slow from a panicked sprint to a default walking pace.

They had reached the area locally-known as Dock Hill. It wasn't a hill, but rather a slightly elevated area of land overlooking the docks at the end of its sloop down to the shoreline. The smell of the salty waters sailed across the air, the salty scent just barely able to be carried up the slope from the waters.

"Arr, I'll bet wee be gettin' closAR," Steve crooned-out, unable to prevent a self-amused grin whilst prissing-up the buttoned edges of his lavender frock-coat.

"Oh, come off it, Steve," Paul rolled his eyes, his eyebrows pushing--up on the front end of his red bandana. "You haven't quit talkin' like that since we put these stupid things on."

"Arrr," Jonesy moaned, half-smiling, his sea-salted tongue undaunted, "but I've always been wantin' to be a pirate I have!"

"You're serious?" Paul had to ask, mostly out of concern, but partially of amusement.

"Iy," Jonesy proudly nodded, touting his chin up and closing his eyes.

Johnny had to grin as he fiddled with the feather stylishly protruding from his gold-trimmed tri-hat.

"I kinda like these, too," he plainly stated as his focused turned to his feathered shirt's puffy sleeves.

"Yeah," Sid laughed as his flicked at his eyepatch. "I feel like Ziggy Stardust with this thing on."

While they were oddly pleased with their piratical disguises, the Pistols still wearily eyed the people standing along the pier. They received a few surprised, even jovial looks from various persons, but those seemed to be because of their outfits as opposed to themselves. In spite of this, the overall setting was rather contained.

Although the scene was much calmer than the one that sent them fleeing from Hudder's Street, the atmosphere was still celebratory. Most people were drinking, some were taking pictures. There were even a few boys in blue sprinkled about to maintain order. It was like watching a group of people waiting to get into some sort of Woodstock-like affair.

Eventually merchandise booths cropped-up along the sides of the pier. Their bannerous billboards protruded above the crowds and clusters of people, boasting whatever food, drink, or clothing product the booth offered,

"Vicious Burgers"

"Pistol Pints"

"Argh," Steve growled. "I be wantin' to plundar me sum treasARR, me hearties."

By then, the assumed piratey color of the guitarist's speech was wearing thin on more people than Paul.

"Really, Steve," Rotten moaned, then broke into a piratish spat of his own. "It be gettin' old, harty…," he trailed-off as his eyes went to more billboards.

"Rotten Bars"

"Jonesy Hankies"

"Yarhar," Jonesy laughed, still maintaining his sea-dog jargon. "But I be buntin' up, me hear-"

"Shattup!" Sid smacked him across the arm, only getting another laugh from Jones for his efforts, leaving Paul to curiously give the next few billboard ads a look,

"Seditionaries Clothing"

"Paul Cookies"

The Sex Pistols suddenly stopped walking as some sort of external disturbance overwhelmed them, though they couldn't quite tell what it was.

"Is it just me," Steve found his speech devoid of nautical refinement as he paused to watch a few kids run past him, taking eye to the Union Jack-patterned handkerchiefs, much like his own, on their heads, "or does something just seem… weird?"

"Something seems very wrong here," Johnny's eyes moved from one sign to the next.

"Johnny, look!" Paul stepped-up to the singer's side, pointing a finger out towards a booth that had gone unnoticed by the rest of the group.

Johnny averted his damning gaze from a t-shirt vendor to Paul's pointed direction, finding himself horrified by the sign above it,

"Johnny Rotten Masks!"

His eyes lowered to see men, women, and children happily parting from the booth with their heads bemasked in clumps of rubber with something that was supposed to be his own face shaped on the front of them, and clumps of what looked like orange hairballs that were supposed to be his hair splat on the top of them. The only detail they got half-way right was the eyes: two googley dots of white that stuck-out like saucers slapped onto the lumpy "face" of lumps and creases, one of those creased supposedly meant to be a mouth. His mouth.

"Why?" was all he could bring himself to say. "Why would anyone…," he let the notion trail-off, leaving it unfinished as he leapt to another inquiry. "What kind of stupid little moron would buy this garbage?"

After letting that rhetorical inquiry hang in the air for a moment, Steve's face became contorted in thought,

"Where is Sid, anyway?"

"Hey, guys!"

Steve, John, and Paul looked behind them to see Sid practically skipping towards them, chomping on a burger with all the glee of a child walking home from the toy store with a new doll.

"Hey!" he greeted his bandmates once he leapt up to them, bits of his burger flying from his maulers as he spoke, words muffled by said burger. "Ch'ck it o't! It's ah Vicious Burger!"

"That's wonderful, Sid," Paul groaned, shielding his face from burger chunks with his arm, as did Steve and John.

As he swallowed, Sid frantically reached into a pocket on his fur vest and withdrew a rubbery, flesh-colored clump of rubber adorned with orange fuzz.

"And check-out this ugly mask this kid gave me!" Vicious held it up for their viewing benefit. "Who's this ugly fucka supposed to-"

Johnny swatted the mask out of Sid's hand, getting a "Heeey!" from the lummox.

"Now what'd ya do that for!?" he took a step towards Rotten.

"Because you're a tosser!" Johnny yelled.

"Well you're an ugly fucka!" Vicious fired back.

"No, _you're _an ugly fucker!" Rotten replied.

"No, you are!"

"No, _you _are!"

"Irish cunt!"

"Stupid, useless junkie!"

"I ain't stupid n' useless, you yob!"

"Yee both be landlubbers!" Jones chimed-in.

Paul gave Steve a hard shove.

"God-dammit!" Cook screamed. "Would you stop with that!?"

"ATTENTION! ATTENTION!"

Their squabbling was halted by a booming voice that popped over the sporadically-placed loudspeakers about the area. Rather, the voice itself was far from booming, but the sheer volume and amplification provided by the PA system made even the man's nasally, pseudo-posh shrill of a voice thunder with quite the baritone force. Even still, the Sex Pistols would've recognized that voice anywhere. The Sex Pistols would've recognized that voice at any volume. They would have recognized that voice at any amplification, at any level of bravado, because they knew the man who possessed it all too well.

"Malcolm," Johnny sneered.

The band collectively stepped-forward, now peering down at the docks from atop the sloop along with a few other onlookers, finding the sight that greeted them horrific. Countless cheering people freshly clad in Sex Pistols merchandise from the booths flashing their cameras and waving flags and banners, various police vehicles and even uniformed Royal Guards lined around the peoples' outskirts, the paparazzi and other news bodies, including a heavy presence from the Daily Sun, crammed in front of the people to stand nearly at the skirt of the large, gloriously-decorated stage. Upon the stage was a gigantic ship that seemed as though it had been ripped directly from 16th century waters: A wooden, cannon-boasting Spanish war galleon of mammoth proportions. However, even more titanous than the behemoth of nautical triumph majestically nestled at center stage, at least to the Sex Pistols, was the tiny speck of a man standing practically beneath the ship's outstretching nose. Malcolm Maclaren, still yelling boisterously into his microphone, his shrill, nasally voice continuing to boom over the roaring crowd through the loudspeakers like the cannons of the Spanish vessel directly into his clients' ears,

"MAY I PRESENT TO YOU, THE SEX PISTOLS' GLORIOUS WARSHIP, 'THE PROUD BAMBI'!"

The crowd's already deafening screaming was sent to even more ear-challenging decibels.

"AND THIS GLORIOUS WARSHIP, AND THIS GLORIOUS WARSHIP'S VOYAGE WOULD NEVER HAD BEEN POSSIBLE WITHOUT THE WONDERFULLY CHARITABLE FOLKS AT THE DAILY SUN!"

The crowd exploded once again.

"This isn't exactly 'quiet'," Johnny shook his head.


End file.
